THE GIFT . . . A Memorial Day Remembrance
Only 350 people lived in the small town divided by a railroad track. In 1942 it was a town where everyone knew who you were. A place built for the conveyance of passengers, it consisted of a railroad station and five stores–including a drugstore, a post office and a barbershop. No matter which side of the railroad tracks you lived on, you had to get along with those on the other side or you would have no friends. And so it was that three boys–one who was barely 5 years old–were playing tag on the dirt road that doubled as the town’s main street. Taking a break from their game of tag, the two older boys had money enough to go into the drugstore and buy a nickel ice cream cone each. Waiting on the street for his friends to return, the 5-year-old sat down on the drugstore steps and watched a recent high school graduate who had just completed basic training in the Marine Corps hold court on the wooden walkway outside the drugstore. Dressed in Marine greens with a perfect knot in his tie, and shoes with a shine you could see your face in, it was clear that he enjoyed the limelight as men who knew him as just another teenager a few short months before, now were seeking his counsel on the war that was raging across the world. As the 5-year-old watched, the Marine flashed a smile his way, showing huge white-white teeth outlined in a chiseled face. Without ceremony the Marine soon excused himself from his place of prominence and walked toward the boy. Looking down on the youngster with his moviestar smile, the Marine said, “I’d like to get an ice cream cone but I hate to eat alone. Do me a favor and come in the store with me and we’ll both have an ice cream cone–it’ll be my treat.” Stunned, the boy got up, the Marine put his hand on the child’s shoulder in what was for a 5-year-old an important show of public friendship from someone who only moments before was the center of attention on a different stage, the Marine then opened the door to the drugstore and ushered the boy in. Climbing up on one of the stools that lined the drugstore counter, the boy ordered his favorite ice cream flavor, vanilla. The Marine, sensing the insecurity of the 5-year-old eating his ice cream cone, centered his attention on the boy so intensely that when a friendly man approached the Marine, interrupting the boy’s ranting to say hello and to thank the new soldier for his service, the Marine, using his infectious smile, excused himself from that conversation and signaled the boy to complete his thoughts. It was a gesture the 5-year-old would never forget. Looking into the wide mirror behind the counter that most drugstores sported at the time, the 5-year-old saw his friends lined up against the store’s rear wall reading comic books. Sensing that there was nothing left to say to his new friend the Marine, he climbed down from the stool, joined his comrades in the back of the store and looked at the pictures in the comic books too. It would be two years before the young boy would see his friend the Marine again, although he thought of him often and treasured the few moments he had spent as the center of attention, talking and eating ice cream in the company of a man he knew by now must be a hero. The Marine, returning home on leave, met the boy by chance on the street and, like before, with that big smile, he took the time to again share a few precious moments over an ice cream cone listening to the boy as if there were nothing more important in his life than the tales of a child. But this time there was a difference that was obvious even to the boy. On the Marine’s chest were ribbons and medals acknowledging the campaign and the bravery he had been part of, and his eyes reflected the toll of the battles he had fought. The boy, as before, relished the time he spent eating ice cream and talking with his friend, the Marine. But as time passed and the flavor of the ice cream faded, the boy became aware of the true gifts he was given by this Marine. For in those few moments he was given friendship and kindness, understanding and respect. To the boy there is still something magical about this Marine who had—in between ice cream cones– fought on Guadalcanal, and was awarded the Silver Star on Tarawa, yet found the time to share a smile and an ice cream cone while listening to a young boy’s ramblings. A few days after their second ice cream cone, the Marine left to rejoin his unit and return to the war. Less than a year after his departure, a car bearing the insignia of the U.S. Navy stopped at the home of the Marine. It was said that you could hear the screams of agony from his mother throughout the town as she was told her son had been killed in action on Iwo Jima. As it had for others in World War II, the town went into mourning in support of the grieving family. On the other side of the tracks a young boy sat alone in his room and cried at the unthinkable: his friend the Marine had been killed. Seventy-some years have passed since a young boy and a Marine shared an ice cream cone in a drugstore just off a dirt road . . . and the scattered memories of a long life tend to clutter the mind as they mix and then fade into obscurity. But the memory of that Marine and the gift of unrequited friendship he gave to that boy is still sharp and in focus as the boy, now a man, enjoys the blessings of life in Bay Point. This Marine should be remembered on Memorial Day not for the gift of friendship, kindness and respect he gave to a young boy–but for the greater gift he gave equally to us all: the willingness to sacrifice his life for the preservation of freedom and democracy. For it is this gift the day is meant to honor, and its significance is only increased by the realization that the Marine whose friendship meant so much to a boy was himself just a boy. ■
SGT Philip J. Doyle 19 years old Killed in Action on Iwo Jima February 1945